


Open your broken heart, (and let me in)

by wordfrenzy (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, Drinking, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Smut, Tony Has Issues, repost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2015109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wordfrenzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually, when Tony sleeps with someone, he remembers exactly what happened, right down to the details. Maybe this time he’d been too drunk. Or maybe he’s a terrible person. Maybe that’s why his new college roommate is acting like a total jackass towards him.</p><p>Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, after some serious thought, I re-uploaded it. Apologies. Anyway, please enjoy, (and maybe leave a kudos/comment) Thank you. <3

It’d never been so hard to lie.

Being known as an expert, though not so much as lying as deflecting, shows just how screwed he was. It was more than screwed; it was irrevocably, completely fucked. All because of feelings, an unfamiliar thing he’d tried to avoid for most of his life, (all eighteen years of it), but it chased him down.

Threw him under the bus, or a dozen. Never stopped when they ran him over, crushed his ribcage and made it impossible to breathe with punctured lungs. It’s stupid. So stupid to think, months later, it was all worth the pain, all worth the heartbreak and regret, which he believes he brought on by himself, ignoring those who told him otherwise. He still thinks the same, but he’s learnt to accept the past and focus on the now. It’s all that matters. He only wishes he’d known that months ago. Before —

Before he’d fallen in love. Not at first sight, but that didn’t make it any less of a challenge.

Or any less painful.

* * *

"Tony —"

"Look, Pep, I know you’re gonna say this party is way too big, and I know it is. That’s what I was going for."

She sighs. "By inviting the whole school?"

"Yeah, the whole school," he says, downing his first shot. "It’s the end of the semester, our graduation, so hell yeah I’m gonna invite everyone, for us seniors, especially the seniors. If you’re surprised by it, then Pep, the apple of my eye, you don’t know me at all."

"Guess not." As he reaches for another shot, she eyes him. "I’d slow down on those if I were you."

"You don’t have to worry over me, I’ll be fine."

An eyebrow raises. "I’m not worried for you. I’d rather not wipe your vomit off my shoes again."

It’s a joke, of course, (he hopes), as she’s always been the one to take care of him, whatever the circumstance. She was the one who helped him stand when he drank too much, or brought him chicken soup all those times he’d gotten the flu. She’d do the same now; if he were to throw up all over her, she could rip him apart with just her glare, sure, but it wouldn’t stop her from guiding him to the bathroom and clean him up. Even in the mornings when his temples throbbed and the stale taste of sick clung to the roof of his mouth, she’d be there, ready with coffee and a bagel.

Not just for illness or irresponsible drinking, but anything that fabricates Tony Stark. All the misplaced humour, inability to function properly when he wakes, or struggle to ever commit to anything but his work, is taken in her stride. She — besides Rhodey — is the only one who doesn’t take his shit. Who keeps him sane.

"I’ve learnt to hold my drink better."

"If you say so." She nods, but isn’t convinced. "So, are you going to want french toast with your coffee tomorrow?"

He leans over and pecks her cheek. "Oh, Pep, looks like you do know me after all."

* * *

He does hold his drink his better; after a third shot, he doesn’t touch another, either from the need to not disappoint Pepper, or because of the guy he spots on the balcony.

A bit of both, but mostly the latter.

He’s a kid—well, looks like one from a distance, or maybe it’s the way his vision is a bit blurred, all from the slight buzz of alcohol in his system—but he isn’t; how else would he have gotten into Tony’s party? Anyway, as he stumbles closer, he can see he is definitely not a kid. Cute, but by no means a minor.

Or else Tony would be very disgusted with himself for getting a twist of heat in his stomach.

Even in the darkness, he can see the guy is a gorgeous shade of blond and is shorter than him, but how—when he catches Tony’s eye as if he sensed the stares—offers a fleeting smile before ducking his head, a light dusting of pink surfacing on his cheeks. It sends a shudder down his back, his breath clinging to the dryness of his throat; yeah, he needs to do something about this, as no way is he letting him leave tonight without at least his phone number. The guy chews on his bottom lip, so pink and ones that Tony begs to kiss for hours, to suck and lick and —

"I know that look, Tony. Don’t. Don’t even think about it."

"Jeez, you make it sound as if I’m a predator."

Rhodey winces. "Well —"

"I’ll have you know, I could never hurt a little guy like him." He slaps a hand to his shoulder. "Rhodes—it’s all good, alright? Not gonna screw up this time."

"Better not. I don’t want to see you go through shit again."

Yeah, well, he’s just glad he isn’t that drunk for once.

* * *

His throat is thick when he wanders over to where the guy stands, almost convinces himself out of it and bolts for the door. It’s a line he always has to cross when trying to chat up guys or girls.

"Let me guess," he says, leaning against the rails. "Music too loud?"

The guy lifts his head, and something in Tony’s head nearly short-circuits at the blue of his eyes, like really, unbelievably bright. He offers him a brief smile, but it morphs into a frown. "No. Waiting for someone." He looks down. "Well. Was."

Tony winces. "Stood up?"

"More of a saw me and left."

"I doubt —"

"I’m used to it. Happens all the time."

He doesn’t know how to react to that, what with it being a raw, split open exposure of his life, within moments of meeting him. It might’ve caused Tony to back off from too much information, or at least a flood of sympathy, though there is a slight amount, but really, he can’t understand why these people would do that to him. There’s nothing wrong with him, but those who do stand him up have too much high standards.

Idiots. Complete fucking idiots, is what they are.

Tony nudges the guy’s shoulder. "I know this might be sudden, but what the hell — join me for a drink?"

"You’re right. It is sudden."

Nodding, he tries not to let the disappointment show. "Desperate?"

"A little." The guy smirks. "But I guess I’m just as desperate for saying yes."

* * *

An hour later, and Tony finally finds the courage to kiss the mystery guy. It’s —

It’s fantastically unbelievable. They’re not even good kisses, they’re great. Even with the sloppy, wet noises and the ache in his back from leaning down to belt his arms around him, it’s wonderful, it’s enough. It’s enough to stumble onto the bed, leave him breathless, for his lungs to burn and jaw to hurt, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way the guy wraps his arms around Tony’s neck, and the warmth that radiates in his chest.

The guy pulls back, heaving in dry gasps. "When you said you’d show me some of your work, this wasn’t exactly what I expected."

"This is work," he says. "A work of art."

He drags the guy back in by the back of his neck, and runs his tongue along the seam of his lips, swallowing down the moan that vibrates against his mouth. He’s imagined this, too many times to count in the space of sixty minutes, (an unhealthy amount, probably, probably), and it’s even better than the dirty fantasies he’d dreamt up. He doesn’t think reality has felt this good, so much it does feel surreal.

There’s a hand gripping his hair, tugging back so it exposes his neck and he almost comes in his pants right there when the guy sucks a mark into his skin, peppering kisses along his collarbone. He feels the breath catch in his throat from how delicate it is, even uncomfortable, pulling him back up for a hard, bruising kiss, tastes the coppery taste of blood on his tongue, not bothered by whose it is. It could be his, a sting in his lip from where it could’ve split open, but he doesn’t care, only tempting him further.

When he stops longer enough to tug the guy’s shirt over his head, he notices he’d wheezing. "Uh, I know I’m good, but, are you going to collapse?"

The guy shakes his head. "Just, just need to catch my breath."

"Wait — are you asthmatic?"

"Not the kind of guys you go for?"

Tony swallows. "Well. Not usually."

He nods once, shifts back. "Maybe—" He stops, as if gathering his thoughts. "Maybe this isn’t a good idea."

"Hey, listen." Catching him around the waist, and trying not to react to how bony his hip is, he hauls him back into his lap. "I might be a little buzzed, but I know what I want. I want this. I want you — have since I saw you on that damn balcony."

The guy’s only answer is to slam his lips back on Tony’s, picking up where they left off with heavy breaths and clambering to grip any thing they can reach. He palms his waist, runs them up to his ribcage, the bones sharp and jutting out against his skin, and just as Tony finds the button of his pants, the guy stops.

And what he does next Tony doesn’t know how to feel. He digs around in his jeans pocket, pulls out a compact blue inhaler, and drags in twice; he knows, he knows, just solved it himself, but now to see it causes a tight sensation in his chest, as if he’s going to need the inhaler in a minute. It feels odd, having been the smaller person during all the other times he’s picked up guys, but it isn’t bad. If anything, it gives the impression he doesn’t quit at anything, and Tony finds him all the more likeable because of it.

He throws the inhaler behind him. "Ready."

Tony grins. "You, are extraordinary."

"I wouldn’t go as far as that," he says, the blush tinging his chest. "Maybe okay."

"Where’s all this coming from?"

Shrugging, "People don’t exactly throw themselves at me."

"I did. Y’know why? It’s cause you are someone I’d want to go for. I know I said I didn’t usually, and I don’t, but— you’re different.” What he’s saying should be a lie, but he wouldn’t be sitting here, on his bed, making out with him if it was. "I like different."

The guy’s eyebrow furrows. "This isn’t pity?"

"Do you need proof that it isn’t?"

Maybe he smiles because he senses the sincerity in Tony’s voice, or he just has so much faith, but either way, Tony let him open his damn mouth, clasping his face and sealing their mouths together again. The moan that slips past his lips is choked back, almost pained, being so starved of so much attention and passion yet not in any hurry; no need to leave or "get it over with", but to savour each touch and breath shared.

He slips his hands down the back of the guys jeans, dragging his nails across skin and tugging them down bony legs. He knows he shouldn’t keep pointing out the obvious, how frankly, it’s not what he should be focused on, but it’s not easy to ignore; then again, if he looks up and stares at the swollen, slicked lips and ruffled hair, the fact he’s thin and short is forgotten.

"You know —" The guy pulls back to gasp, "—there’s something wrong with this picture."

"Really? I don’t see anything wrong. In fact, it’s pretty damn great."

"It is," he says. "But why am I the only one undressed?"

"Because it’d be a tragedy if you weren’t?"

The guy smiles, grasping the hem of Tony’s t-shirt and yanking it off and throwing it behind them. He’s bathed in a chill, goosebumps rising along his arms, but it doesn’t compare to the warmth of being pressed against somebody else, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

He tries to bite back the moan when the guy kisses down his chest, the tang of blood still lingering on his lips, lost in the tugging at his pants, unbuckled and pulled halfway down his legs, then his boxers; he hadn’t noticed he’d been so hard until he is, impossibly hard, almost too much to bear the cold air, let alone any kind of touching. A shuddered breath rushes out his lungs when he feels warmth hands down his thighs, blunt nails scraping over his flushed skin, and jesus christ, the guy leaning down and taking him into his mouth.

His hands fist the bed sheets, white-knuckled, and hips stuttering from the restraint of holding back. Sweat gathers on his back, heat flooding into his cheeks. Tony slumps back, throwing an arm over his eyes, and just lets him feel.

It’s been so long since someone has done this; sure, he’s always been a giver — loves to share the pleasure, one of his rules is to never be selfish in bed. But, the thing is, he’s never be much of a receiver, partly out of the other person not offering, or because he declines out of it being undeserved. He’s close, too close.

"You, you don’t have to —"

"I know," he says, pulling off but his breath ghosting over his spit-slicked dick. "Want to, though."

When he goes down again, he attempts to slide deeper, but it’s too much, coughing and the slight glistening of tears in the corner of his eyes. Tony goes to pull him off, but the guy bats his hands away. He looks up at Tony, and he wonders if the room could get any more stifling, the sound of music outside any harder against his skull, or the scratchy fabric of the sheets a hundred times more shocking against his skin.

He’s nearly there, so close, and —

Forced to pull off, he silences the guy with a harsh kiss. "Need to fuck you."

"Yeah," the guy breathes, eagerly reaching for Tony. "Yes."

Tony laughs, whipping off the rest of the guy’s clothing, and tugs him back into his lap. He leans over to dig around in his bedside table, seizing the lube and condoms, and tears a packet open with his teeth; he’s careful not to swallow it down when the guy licks his lips.

Popping the cap open on the lube, he squeezes it onto two fingers. It’s cold, the guy jerking as Tony reaches behind him, but distracts him with another kiss, pouring everything into it — all the tricks and moves he’s picked up over the years, like a gentle, teasing bite to the bottom lip, or light flicks of his tongue, and only when he’s rewarded with the impatient groan, does he deepen it as much as he can.

It doesn’t take long to open him up, to know he’s ready from the way he rocks into Tony’s hand and claws at his back.

Or how he harshly murmurs, "Do it, now."

"You know," Tony says. "You can’t just rush these things."

The guy leans back. "There’d be no rushing if you were faster."

"I’m sorry, are you not enjoying this?"

"Who said I wasn’t?"

"It was implied —"

"Trust me," he says, smiling. "We’re naked and I’m on top of you. I think it’s safe to say I’m enjoying this."

Tony smiles, and hoists the guy higher in his arms, lining up. It’s — well, he doesn’t know how to describe how wonderful it feels, encased in heat and it’s something he’s familiar with, but somehow it’s different. The sweat trickles down his hairline, salty against his lips as he kisses and touches, and feels everything as it swarms in around him.

But it’s not just the atmosphere, the pleasure or just the fact he’s having sex that makes it feel a hundred times better. It’s that he’s so outcasted in that he’s never touched a guy like this one; never even thought of it. If he had, he wouldn’t have been so towards, so open and keen to jump into bed. Yet, here he is, thinking this is the best decision he’s made in a long time. It might even be something he wants again, sometime, but he pushes that kind of thoughts away.

He doesn’t realise he’s moaning until he hears the guy as well. They sputter past his lips, forced from his dry throat, but, god, he doesn’t care. Doesn’t even know why he’s aware of it, because all he’s aware of is the legs tight around his back, the kisses that trace along his jaw, and the sight of the guys chest, flushed and heaving.

It lasts for moments, maybe a few minutes if he’s lucky, for Tony to rip apart at the seams in a muffled shout and a final thrust. The guy follows, nails digging in so hard that he can feel the imprint of crescent moons in his skin, and he wants them there, to remember.

Remember this second, to freeze time, and catalogue every detail.

When the black dots fade out, his breathing evens out, he lays back, and encouraging the guy to settle against his chest. With minimal persuasion, he gives in, spreading out, unmoving besides the brief shiver and hum of approval when Tony runs his fingers up the length of his spine. It’s late, and everyone is probably gone, but he’s too happy to give two shits.

A meteor could hurtle towards Earth, or someone could walk in and scream and shout — whichever one was worse — and it would mean nothing to him, not a problem, because nothing could ruin this night.

"Hey," Tony says, a frown seeping into his brow. "What’s your name?"

He sighs, a content, sleepy sound and presses closer. "It’s Steve."

"Steve," he echoes. "I won’t be forgetting you any time soon."

* * *

He leaves after two hours.

It’s understandable, no matter how disappointed he feels once he closes the door behind Steve, what with his mother calling him, probably worried out of her mind, Steve said. Worse was, they hadn’t even kissed goodbye, made no arrangements to see each other again. It’s not that Tony didn’t want to, but the sudden nerves and slight awkwardness had taken over.

Summer had arrived, though, so he plans to make contact again, and —

"Tony!" His father. "Get your ass down here!"

He holds back the urge to tell him to fuck off, and heads downstairs. The place is a horrific mess; beer cans litter the floors, spilt alcohol, with some precious — millions worth — of valuables smashed. He knows what’s coming next, what with the smell of whiskey on his father’s breath when he comes close, invading Tony’s personal space, and he has to hold back another urge to vomit.

There’s been two other times where it happened. He’s learnt how to deal with it.

When he goes back upstairs, and checks the tender bruise beginning to bloom across his cheek, he knows it’ll be easy to cover, and how easy it is to block it out.

He yanks out the stashed bottle of vodka from under his bed, uncaps it, and downs half. It hits him almost instantly, with his throat burning and a blur stinging his eyes, he falls back against the bed, ignoring the throb of pain when he hits his head on the board.

It’s so easy to make it disappear.

He snorts. "What a great start to summer."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter — I'll try to make the next one longer.

“I need a drink.”

Rhodey snorts. “You’ve barely stepped through the doors.”

“Which is long enough,” Tony says, taking a long swig from his water bottle, which Rhodey eyes suspiciously. “So, hopefully, by the end of introduction, I’ll be too blind drunk to give a single shit about who I’ve got for a roommate. Maybe he’ll be sexy and smart, but not too smart. Don’t want competition—”

“Yeah, I got it,” Rhodey smirks. “Speaking of introduction, it starts in five minutes so unless you want Pepper to drag you in by the collar, you better get your ass in there.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I want her to drag me in there? One of my many kinks.”

Trouble is, as much as he tries to make it a joke, he doesn’t find it funny. The weight of his shitty summer still lingers on him, of drunken nights and shouting matches with Howard. Thankfully, only the first night had ended with bruises or split knuckles from his own frustration taken out on the wall. But it wasn’t all bad. Most days were spent tinkering or creating new technology. This time to himself he treasured most, and only when he picked up the first glass of stolen scotch did it go downhill from there.

On the outside, it looks like he loves what he does—the drinking, the irresponsible actions and the need to throw a party every other day. It’s only in the morning, when his head throbs, his eyes are bloodshot, and there’s a stale taste of alcohol on his tongue, that he realises what he’s done. That maybe those who tell him he shouldn’t do those things are right.

He skips the introduction after all.

* * *

When he meets his roommate, it looks as if the day might be better than he’d expected.

Out of all the guys he’s seen, not excluding women, this guy is unbelievably the most attractive. Built and bulky, which although is quite intimidating and somewhat too much to be believable, he is levelled out with the blond locks parted to the side as if he’s from the damn 1940’s. He looks like he can crush a car with his bare hands, but his eyes, incredibly blue, scream adorable. The best kind of look, if Tony must say so himself. There’s something familiar about him, something Tony can’t quite place.

He takes away the attention from Tony’s room, at least, and the fact he’d been stuck with a roommate. Tony had specifically asked for a single room for his complex studies, but they had dismissed his wishes. He no longer cares that it’s average, furnished with stable beds but cotton sheets, and has layers of dust and very little working space; in all fairness, the room is tolerable now that the new guy has arrived to brighten up the place. There’s already a determination to get to know him better, in a different sense, but Tony pushes it away.

The guy’s smile is bright as soon as he spots Tony. Again, a spark of familiarity hits him, but it’s all fuzzy to remember. Doesn’t matter, as he plans to find out who he is, and Tony steps forward and thrusts his hand out. “Stark,” he says. “Tony Stark.”

And just like that, the smile drops.

He grabs Tony’s hand, gives him one hard shake, and then takes his hand away. The saddest thing is that he knows why the guy had a sudden change. It’s because he’s the son of the infamous Howard Stark, heir to Stark Industries, which is known for being in the weapons industry. For a moment, Tony doesn’t blame him. In the beginning, he’d enjoyed being a part of a company, but that was until he saw what really happened behind closed doors, like the wrong sort of people getting a hold of their products.

Since then he’s wanted to suggest different ideas, like energy sources or different forms of protection, to the company board, seeing as they’re completely capable of changing. However, he’d get shot down if he tried. Or worse.

Which is why a part of him is glad he’s in college, even if he’s completely overqualified for their basic course of Engineering: to get away from the place where he can’t think of a single good thing that’s happened there, besides Howard’s drinks cabinet and endless amounts of money to buy even more alcohol and locks to install on his door.

The guy turns and start unpacking his case without another glance his way. Tony doesn’t know why, but it causes a stab of pain in his chest. He doesn’t need to justify himself, or even try and introduce a civility into being roommates, but he finds himself needing it anyway. It’s a stupid, ridiculous need to prove that he’s a man of many things, not just someone of his family’s reputation. It’s worse than he thought, and he thinks — knows — the rest of his day will follow the same pattern.

He leans against his desk awkwardly. “So, isn’t this the part where you tell me who you are?”

Still not looking, the guy replies. “You can call me Rogers.”

“What, no first name?”

“I have one,” he says. “But sometimes it’s hard to remember.”

* * *

“You gotta admit, Stark—who doesn’t hate you?”

Natasha hits Clint in the face with her textbook. “Not helping, Clint. Идиот.”

Tony ignores them, focusing on moving his lunch around his plate. He hates that he’s closed in on himself, and so quickly; hates that this guy has such an effect on him within only the first few moments of meeting him. He’s sailed through his first lectures, listening with mild interest, but the thoughts of Rogers had always taken over. Despite them not being a problem for his learning, they still caused him to constantly wonder as to what Rogers’ issue with him was.

There isn’t much to go on, besides an unpleasant greeting and, after sorting out all his things, a hasty departure an hour before classes started. Tony hasn’t seen him since. Part of him sighs with relief, but the other is tinged with annoyance.

“You shouldn’t be hung up on this so much,” Pepper says, looking at him knowingly. “It’s probably nothing.”

Clint throws one of his M&M’s in the air and catches it. “Yeah. It’s kinda sad, dude.”

“Is this not what you feel for our red-headed beauty—”

“Hey, how’s that project of yours coming along?” Clint hurriedly interrupts Thor. “The one with the hammer—?”

Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes. “Smooth.”

“You knew?” Clint falters. “If, you know, there was anything to know. I thought this was about Stark?”

Tony has to admit, his spirits have been lifted a bit by whatever the hell just happened, and he allows a small smirk to lift the corner of his mouth. “No, no, please continue. This is much more interesting.”

“Enough,” Jane says, but there’s a hint of amusement. “Both of you.”

The rest of the conversation is drowned out when Tony spots him across the campus.

He’s there, right there—his rucksack thrown over one shoulder, cheeks slightly flushed and a brilliant smile on his lips as he speaks to a long-haired brunette guy, and again, there’s a stab of pain in his chest. It’s jealousy, or why else would he feel the sudden urge to go over and talk to him?

Pepper nudges his side. “Let me guess: the blond one?”

He nods. “I’m kind of hoping he’s not real. No one can be that good looking. You can’t look directly at him without going blind. He’s like the sun, Pepper, and you know what the sun does to me.”

“You’d turn into dust—” Natasha starts with a smirk.

“—cause you scarily resemble a vampire,” Clint finishes, bits of food flying from his mouth. “Never going outside in the daytime, awake throughout the night, pale skin and if I touch any of your stuff, you hiss and try to bite me. Maybe it’s just me, guys, but either he’s a vampire or just has serious issues.”

So, apparently they’d stopped talking long enough to listen in, due to Tony being too distracted to notice. Great. He ignores Clint’s second comment. “FYI, I bit you only once and that was because you broke my extra credit science project for my finals that took me two whole nights to make.” He shrugs. “Easily fixed, but the point is, Barton, you’re an ass.”

Clint scoffs. “An ass that could shoot an arrow up yours.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Natasha says, slapping them both over the head. “Children.”

“The man Stark speaks of is coming this way,” Thor says, and turns to Tony. “It can be your chance for formalities.”

“Don’t think it’s formalities Stark is looking for,” Clint mutters, dodging another back-hander from Natasha.  “What? It’s true isn’t it? Who stares at a guy or girl, with drool on their chin, just to be formal?”

Tony snorts. “You’ve got a point there, Barton. Doing a pretty good impression to – hey, Natasha, how about you wipe your boyfriend’s mouth before he drowns?”

“I wasn’t kidding about that arrow—”

“Don’t know how you’ll manage that, seeing as you don’t have any.”

Clint frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Those arrows I so kindly offered to make for you are still in prototype. In fact, they could inconveniently break. So, I think you’ll find that my ass will remain intact.”

“Until you get into bed with him,” Bruce says.

Tony slowly turns to look at him. “Jesus, Bruce. This is a new side to you.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “That even surprised me.”

“As lovely as this discussion is,” Pepper says, looking at Tony. “Weren’t you going to talk to him?”

“Yes—”

“You better hurry, then,” Jane says, pushing his side. “He’s just disappeared ‘round the Art block.”

Without thinking, and only now consciously aware of the wolf whistles that Clint gives him, he heads (or runs) down the path and around the corner. Rogers is there, still with the brunette and this Wilson guy. He waits until they part ways to make his move, jogging over and catching the door for him. Rogers stops, looks at him, and Tony can see him visibly swallow. Then, as if it couldn’t get any worse, a tick jumping in his jaw.

Tony clears his throat. “Uh, hey.”

Confusion flickers over Rogers face as he says slowly, “Hi. Can I help you?”

On the outside, it’s a simple question, but to Tony’s ears, it’s as if the guy is some tour guide, and an impatient one at that. His body language screams can’t you see I’m busy, but Rogers is trying to mask this issue he has with Tony pretty well. If he wasn’t so attracted or intrigued with the guy, Tony wouldn’t have had a clue that there was a problem and would’ve passed it off as shyness.

Tony dismisses his question with a wave of his hand, putting on a smirk to cover up the fact that his heart is in his throat. “Nothing important. Just thought we didn’t properly introduce ourselves. We could over coffee?”

Rogers smiles, a brief lift of the corners of his mouth, but then: “Thanks for the offer, but—”

“Yeah, okay,” Tony interrupts, because he doesn’t want to hear his excuse. He can tell when someone doesn’t want to know him, let alone go out on a date with him. “Maybe another time.”

He leaves before Rogers can answer, doesn’t want him to see the twist of pain on his face as he tries to hide it, and when he passes Pepper and the rest, he ignores their shouts, ignores the calls and text messages, and doesn’t care that he’s skipping class. He flops down onto the bed, pulls out a bottle of vodka he’d snuck in from under his mattress and downs a quarter of it in one go.

But he’s so used to it now that it no longer numbs the pain.

* * *

When he wakes up from what must have been passing out, it’s nine in the evening.

He doesn’t know how much drink he’s had; a lot, probably, from the way his head is pounding and there’s a foul taste lingering in his mouth, and even the slight brush of the bedsheets is an annoyance, scratchy and uncomfortable. He’s slept better on the floor.

God, he hates this, hates this constant urge to block his pain, in the only way he knows how. He’s tried other things, like running around his neighbourhood until he couldn’t breathe and sweat slicked every inch of skin, or meditation in the middle of the night, but neither helped, due to his view on how stupid it was and how alcohol is an addiction now, and simply letting it go isn’t the option, if an option at all. Problem is, although it seals off the aches that web their way through his system, they’ll reopen later on, until he finds it hard to concentrate or function, and leaves him at a loss.

That is something he definitely wants to avoid. He loves his work, as much as a physical and mental toll it is at times with the sleep deprivation and his first source of sustenance is coffee, but it’s his life—he’s a creator, and truthfully it’s the only thing he has left in his shitty, worthless life. If he loses his work, too, then he truly doesn’t know what would come next.

As he hisses when he sits up, fighting back the vomit clawing its way up his throat, Rogers walks in.

It happens fairly quickly: his anger bubbles up, the feeling he’d tried to hold back the more and more he drank. The trigger is Rogers spotting him and suddenly hesitating to venture into the room any further. Tony can see it—can see what he feels. The words spew out before Tony can stop them, slurred and exposed.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare think about leaving, or so help me, Rogers.”

“Are you drunk?”

Tony scoffs, a harsh sound in his throat. “Does it matter? No, cause y’know what does matter? What your fucking problem is.” He takes another swig, and sways on his feet as he tries to get up. Surprisingly, Rogers instinct is to reach out, but Tony flinches away. “Don’t touch me. You can’t one moment be a jackass to me, and the next be a hero.”

He knows Rogers is stressed by this, from the way his jaw works again. “I wasn’t trying to be either. Look, you need to lay down and drink some water.”

“I’m fine,” Tony hisses, head banging against the wall. “I don’t need a carer.”

“But you need to sober up. Sleep it off, Tony. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“No, we won’t.” He breathes heavily through his nose, fighting back the next urge of needing to vomit, like a tidal wave, sudden and rolling over him, dizzy and fast. “You say that, but tomorrow you’ll snub me again, and run—run till you can’t see me.”

“This isn’t the time to discuss—”

“What?” Tony says. “So there’s a reason behind you being a jackass?”

Rogers pauses for a moment before sighing, “Yes.”

“Wanna tell what it is?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, please, Rogers. Enough with the secrets. Just tell me.”

“Not while you’re in this state—”

This time Tony laughs, full on almost hysterical laughter. “Don’t think I can take it? Is it because I’m a Stark? The pretty face of the greatest weaponry to shape America and all the destruction that came with it. Is it? C’mon, Rogers, throw me a damn bone—”

“Enough,” Rogers says, and his voice is hard, causing Tony to jolt away from his drunken haze for a second. Rogers steps forward and what he says next is a whisper, but hits Tony’s ears like noise from blaring speakers. “You forgot me, Tony. You said you wouldn’t. I guess I’d been stupid enough to believe it.”

It hits Tony like a truck, if he could imagine what that would feel like. The air is knocked out from his lungs and he struggles to breathe, excruciating pain suddenly shooting over his body. His knees are now weak, so he leans against the wall to balance himself, but the dizzying sensation remains, black creeping into his vision. He remembers—

He remembers it all. The little guy he’d met at the party, smiles and jutting bones, and how he’d accepted Tony, even though Tony had been pretty sure that the guy was familiar with his damaged reputation. Believed Tony when he said he was interested in him, and though there had been clumsy kisses and fumbling hands, inexperienced and fragile, it was one of the moments where he forgot his troubles, forgot about his anxiety on how the night with end with his father returning from work, breath smelling of scotch and smoke, ready to spit out all the expletives and frustrations he had with Tony. Forgot about the pain.

“You—” He cuts himself off, sucking in a breath. “Steve?”

Rogers confirms it with a sad smile, so raw, split open. “I thought you’d remember me, but you didn’t. You never did.”


End file.
